


Erised

by Deganamfiehcsim



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:45:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7063072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deganamfiehcsim/pseuds/Deganamfiehcsim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of The Battle of Hogwarts, George discovers The Mirror of Erised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erised


      There was rubbish everywhere. In the great hall the bodies were lined one after the other, and around them the smoldering ruins of the castle.  
    
    Smoke from still dying embers filtered up and away through the expanse where the enchanted ceiling used to be.  
    
    A violent, torrential downpour would have been fitting after the victory, though those left behind were too numb to have appreciated it. Instead they were met with a hesitantly rising sun, its beams cautiously illuminating the still bodies.  
    
    Somewhere, in the recesses of his brain, George Weasley wished for rain, huge heavy drops to confiscate tears and obscure vision.  
    
    George had imagined the pain that he felt after losing his ear might be the worst he experienced (when George spoke this aloud Fred pointed out that this was impossible, seeing as they ran a joke shop and someone had to sample the merchandise). The pain of losing the ear didn't come until later, and it wasn't entirely physical. After all, the ear itself was cursed off, which George likened to being hacked through with a flaming hot sword. Immediately after the loss of the ear there was a loss of equilibrium, a dizzying, sickening sensation, as though the world had collapsed and would not right again. In the light he pretended that the ear was another joke; indeed, he recalled noting himself as “holy.” But when he was alone, he ran his fingers over the space that the ear would have been, strangely, missing it. The most pain came from the forgetting and then the remembering. There was an astonishing jolt that accompanied the realization--the same every day--that a piece was missing.  
    
    Staring down at Fred, his face frozen into a smile, his eyes staring past the brilliant sky, unfettered by the drops of rain—no, tears?--smattering his face, George felt a jolt so hard he was certain his heart stopped. The tightness in his chest was too much. It was all too much. He was dizzy and he would be sick, he was certain.  
    
    He gasped, a great gasp that hurt his lungs, but it was not enough.  
    
    Distantly he felt his mother grappling at him. Through cotton he mumbled "geroff," and weakly she complied. She collapsed into his fathers arms, and he moved his mouth, but no sound would exit.  
    
    He couldn't breathe. He stumbled into mourners huddled weeping silently over the bodies lined in the room. Vaguely he realized the shock of violet hair was familiar, and he wondered who would tell Tonks’ mother that she would not come home. Remus was there, too, beside her, stiff and grim and dead.  
    
    Angelina stood in the entrance of the great hall. Her mouth moved, but he could not hear the words coming out. Fred would translate when George couldn’t hear, he would move seamlessly into the space that George’s ear occupied and he would pick up the pieces. In this way his ear was not lost, only displaced. Fred was there, as he always was, as a partner.  
    
    Now he was behind George, quickly cooling on the grimy floor, tears soaking his robes. The trembling hands of his sister had only just closed his eyes, barely able to touch her brother’s face. She had hoped that George would do it, it seemed as though it would be George’s job, but it fell to her. Tears blurred her vision as Ginny bore this weight.  
    
    George stared at Angelina’s mouth for a long moment before moving past her. A stricken look of abject terror crossed her face, and any day but today—any time but now—George would have leant her his shoulder.  
    
    He loved her.  
    
    But today he could not; he could not even hear her.  
    
    The dizzying sickness returned, and George leaned against the wall to steady himself.  
    
    He could feel Angelina close behind him, though she knew enough not to touch.  
    
    George pushed himself away, stumbling up the nearest staircase. It would lead, he was certain, to the astronomy tower, if he trod the whole way.  
    
    His legs were weights beneath him, though, and he stumbled again onto an unfamiliar landing.  
    
    The portraits were crammed together on this corridor, and they were frantic. Their painted mouths moved, too, and he was certain they were shouting at him for information. In one of the portraits a woman had fainted and was being slowly revived by a nurse from another portrait. George tore his eyes from them, ears still ringing.  
    
    He could still feel Angelina behind him, so he took off into a weak sprint. He tore down another corridor, left then right then left before tumbling down a short flight of stairs.  
    
    He fell rather than ran into an empty room, shutting the door heavily behind him.  
    
    At first glance it was empty, and the emptiness frightened him. He was alone in the room as he was alone in the world.  
    
    Again George gasped, large heaving gasps that gave him no relief.  
    
    George crawled across the floor away from the door, feeling the oppressive presence of grief following him. The stone was cold on his knees beneath his robes, and he pressed his cheek against the floor. From his vantage the room was distorted, and he discerned in the far corner of the room a tall window.  
    
    As George crawled closer he realized his error. No, not a window. A mirror.  
    
    The mirror was old—older than anything George had ever seen—and stood imposing away from the light.  
    
    Though George was on his knees, his reflection stood before him. George was certain that he was dirtier than he had ever been; soot, he imagined, covered him head to toe.  
    
    He was bleeding at least from his mouth and had a gash on his head.  
    
    In the mirror he was perfect and clean. His mirror stood and stared down at himself on the floor, offering a small, sad smile. His mirror gestured, and from the place beyond the frame, Fred appeared. He offered no words, but they were unnecessary.  
    
    George reached for his brother’s hand slowly, and pressed against the glass. Fred’s mirror did the same, and George swore he felt him.  
    
    George tore his eyes from his brother’s face only to read the inscription above the mirror—Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.  
    
    He did not care to know what the inscription meant. He stared, unblinking, into the mirror, his grief held silently at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> I have never ever ever written fanfiction! This is probably awful, but I have to write it! I am only now rereading the Harry Potter series, so please forgive me if there are continuity errors, etc. I will update this about once per week, but I have the general idea mapped out in my brain. :)


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